


working in reverse

by scrubbadub



Series: Good End Friends [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Ch'boy takes a hit, F/M, Fuck Sazed (The Adventure Zone), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Yknow. The deadly kind, angus is a very smart boy!!, do no harm but take no shit, graphic depictions of poison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-04-30 15:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14499903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: In one universe, forty people die in Glamour Springs. A cook and his guilty assistant flee, and the guilt of that mistake weighs on that wizard for the rest of his life. Fate carries on, and, many years later, a story of seven birds is told.This time, though, forty people do not die.The cook just might.





	1. Prologue

Fate weaves like waves. Oftentimes, it has a funny way of letting itself be known. Sometimes, it's a chance meeting, a misstep, a turn of phrase; something innocuous that directly influences fate.

It's the small things, most often. But sometimes, it's not small. Sometimes, it's a death where there shouldn't be; it's a war, a drowning, a murder- 

Fate has a funny way of weaving, that is true. 

Somewhere in the Celestial plane, a woman sits comfortably, massive looms of yarn spun around her, frozen in time. She is an old woman, wrinkles etched into her face like line work, like grooves that tell stories, and her smile is warm; she is a child, full of potential and beaming with light, youthful and waiting to grow; she is a young woman, hair down to the floor, and her eyes sparkle like diamonds. 

Her name is Istus, and she's knitting an epoch, right now, though she can't yet tell. 

Her fingers weave and move carefully, movements practiced and skilled, until- she takes pause, corners of her eyes crinkling in surprise. 

"Huh. This is going to be interesting." 

With that, she continues to knit, but the lines of thread are darker, less bright. What a story this scarf has to tell.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Taako Eats Poison And Fucking Dies", this time on, It's Always Sunny In Faerun
> 
> Also maybe known as "The Raven Queen Fucking Punts An Elf", in the same font

His name is Taako Taaco, and today is a huge fucking day. It’s not like he didn’t expect it to be a big day, no- he very deliberately knew that today was the day he was going to be doing one of his biggest shows. He knows he’s in Glamour Springs. He knows where Sazed is (he thinks).

He just didn’t want to fucking think about it until now. Sue him, crowds make him nervous.

They don’t make him that nervous, he just- he doesn’t like it. The feeling of eyes watching him expectantly, knowing, waiting for him to drop that shitty little act he does, just so they can point and make fun and watch him fall-- wow, he’s morbid today, isn’t he? He rectifies this by taking a drink out of a half-empty wine bottle, lets the alcohol wash away the dissent, and steels himself.

“A’ight. Who’s the man with a plan? Who’s the greatest fuckin’ cook in all of Faerun? ‘S you, baby, everyone knows Taako! Gotta- gotta keep up that brand, yeah?”

Yeah.

When he struts out onto that stage, the crowd is the largest it’s ever been. He can’t guarantee that all of these people are from Glamour Springs, either, because there have most definitely been a few stragglers here and there that followed him; he's had to force people to move on, a few times, and it’s always irritating. Clingy little fuckers.

They're like leeches.

It’s with a practiced ease and an uneasy apprehension he still can’t place that he starts preparing the chicken. He makes it a show to see just how many items he can transmute into which, just how many ways he can prepare this food, and the crowd eats it up. He'll need to restock on spell components for the next show, but it's worth it. They gobble it down like it’s their last meal; like they’ve been sentenced to death row, and this is their last chance to taste something beautiful.

That’s also fucking morbid. He thought that he _fixed_ that. Oghma above.

In his theatrics, he failed to notice Sazed. Of course, he’s clumsy about bringing the garnish out, so he can use it on the chicken. He doesn't question it much, because he's in the middle of telling a good joke that’ll lead into the clump of beets, perched delicately on the ingredient side of the table, spontaneously transforming into cloves of garlic; all it takes is some matter manipulation and a decent enough understanding of the way magic works, really, which he has. He doesn't question that either.

When the chicken is done, it doesn’t take long to prepare it, and he gets to work on the side dishes. Baked potatoes, cooked to perfection, with hints of shredded garlic and basil, not to mention the pepper- pepper is fucking _essential_ to most dishes- and corn straight off the cob. A basic dish, but a flashy enough one, nonetheless. He always has something special planned for dessert, anyways.

Finally, the chicken is done.

“A’ight, my ladies an’ gents, we’ve got company! And by company, you know ch’boy means this succulent ass chicken. Just look at it!” They _ooh_ and _aah_ , just like he expected them to, and it chases away that previous anxiety. It’d been building, and he couldn’t place why. Seeing their adoration, though, their smiles and wonder and raw delight at an obvious sham, it gives him- pride? He doesn't want to say pride, because he's not proud of tricking idiots into giving him money-

...okay, no, that’s a lie, that’s a feat in and of itself that he's proud he knows how to pull off. He's… admirable, he guesses, and content with that admiration. He's an idol. He's fucking famous. He doesn't need anyone else but himself.

That’s how it’s always been. The approval of several groups of people just means that it’ll be easier to pretend that he cares.

“A good chef always tastes his food ‘fore he serves it, though, you know? Don’t want nobody endin’ up like King Shit the Fourth, or whatever. That’s why they got taste testers!” He slices off a piece of the chicken and takes a bite.

It tastes good. He's, as always, impressed with his work. To some level, anyways. It tastes… off, though, vaguely bland in a way he can’t really place. There’s part of it that just kind of tastes like nothing, and it’s pissing him off. They’re already lining up to get their own samples, but he holds up a finger, and the crowd pauses. “Hol’ up.” He tries another piece. It still tastes off. He still _can’t fucking place why_ it tastes off, just that it _does_. He knows that elven senses are more attuned than humans, so he could be tasting something that they can’t, but what the fuck would he be able to fucking-

Oh.

_Oh, fuck._

“Okay, so, uh- y’all can’t eat this. Your boy here pro’lly fucked somethin’ up in the process, tastes off, and you know that Taako only gives off the most quality, primo shit, you know? So, what we’re gonna do, is we’re gonna start over, and y’all can chill with some of my premade food, yeah?” He's gonna have to make himself vomit if he's just poisoned himself. The issue is, he has _no idea_ what kind of poison it is, or if he just has off taste buds today. The food sits like lead in his stomach.

He does what any sane and healthy man would do: he ignores it, for now.

//

This, of course, turns out to be a mistake.

By the time he's got all the premade food out for people to take from, and the ruined (subpar piece-of-shit no-good nasty) food into the trash, it’s been fifteen minutes, and he is… he's fairly sure he's been poisoned. This is fine. Charcoal is supposed to help, right, it, like- it cleanses the body, he can just munch on some of that, call it a new cookie- except he doesn't know if he can keep it down. His stomach hurts. 

It’s an acute, sharp, stabbing sort of pain, growing in intensity, and he's leaning on the counter to try and get it to go away. He needs a healer. His show is still going. There are still people taking food from the stand, he can’t just abandon his post, not when they’re watching-- _he can’t let them know he's in pain or they could use it against him he knows they could--_

It turns out to be a moot point, because there’s vomit forcing its way out of his stomach and up through his throat already, forcing him to bend over with the intensity of the heaving. He doesn't bother to look at what color it is, because he can already fucking taste blood; he knows exactly what it is he’s throwing up. He just-

He can’t stop throwing up, and it’s painful. It’s a bone-deep kind of pain that he's never had the unlucky chance to experience, and he was blissfully taking that for granted, before.

Someone has a hand on his shoulders. He can’t hear them well. It sounds fuzzy, but he can’t breathe well, there are bands around his lungs and irons in his bones, too much pulling him under to try and parse through the words-

Except.

He still has his eyes open, and he can see their face. There’s a man with blocky, dorky glasses on, slipping down his nose, and his hair is short, looks handcut; he feels like home in an indescribable way. Vaguely, he can make out the sense that he’s trying to grab a healer, grab anyone who can help, but there’s more pain, more vices around his stomach, and he lets the tidal wave of pain drag him under.

He thinks he hit his head on something before he passes out, and his last, assumedly final thought is _this fucking sucks_ , before he's let into the gentle hold of unconsciousness.

//

He does not dream. He doesn’t think so, anyways. There’s the sense that a great tragedy has just occured, on some minute level, but he's too busy floating to try and understand that.

The lights twinkle and dance above him. They taunt him. He sticks his tongue out at them in return, and does not frown when his tongue turns out red. Colors are weird like that, you know?

Quietly, as he floats across this endless sea, as the waves slowly come closer and closer to pulling him under, he hears the sound of a boat. It’s moving through the water like molasses, but the occupant is some primo eye candy, so he can’t complain. He offers him a hand when he finally comes close enough to reach him, and he takes it, hoisting himself onto the boat gingerly.

Vaguely, the aftertaste of blood floods his mouth. He doesn't remember why.

“So, uh, I ain’t-” He shushes him. He’s got a scythe, which he is bringing out, and, oh, that looks sharp- except he doesn’t bring it down on Taako like he expects him to. He slices through the air in front of the boat, and it tears, stabilizes into a portal; he stands, carefully exits the boat, and looks for him to follow. Dramatic, huh? Taako can play that game.

He vaults himself across the boat in a barrel roll and sticks the landing on the other end of the portal. Grinning, he stands tall- and then stops.

In front of him is a god. He can hear her presence inside the room, like whispers at the edge of his mind, tendrils on a block of carbon, smoke against melting ice- it’s the sound of time passing and taking with it mortality, of blood spilling onto ground, sickness flooding the body and clogging the room with its presence; he smells decay, and death, and there are raven feathers floating across the room, as if their presence is natural.

As if his presence is not.

When he turns to look at her, there is nothing but an ever-shifting mass of feathers and bone; there is nothing but eyes and claws and talons, nothing but the cycle of life and death born incarnate, _death itself_ , and he cannot bring himself to look away. It is awe-ful, and it is overwhelming. It’s staring into the eyes of a god he does not know, and feeling fear, true and deep, for the first time.

_Do not be afraid, Taako Taaco._

He looks down at the ground. Her associate, he assumes, moves to stand by him, a decent distance away. He looks proud. 

_This is one of my reapers. His name is Kravitz. ... You were not meant to die today, Taako. Istus and I have a very… intimate knowledge of each other’s jobs, sometimes, and it was made very clear that you will live._

“Okay, but, but, uh- uh, why am i, i- what’s so fuckin’ spec’ about lil’ ol’ me? ‘Sides, Taako ain’t dead yet.” 

_Yet._

The word carries unfathomable weight. It makes his stomach drop, and the gravity of the situation finally breaches that numb shock. He's dying. He's talking to a _god_ , who most likely _deals_ with death. He is _dying_ , and he doesn't think he's ready to do that, yet. Not when he- fuck, not when he apparently isn't even _supposed_ to die, yet, right? That has to count for something. 

_I cannot break the laws of life and death for a man chosen by fate, Taako Taaco. You are already on thin ice._

It feels like there are a million bitter, angry, but mildly amused eyes watching him, all at once. He doesn't like feeling the judgement of Death Herself (her? him? probably a her) on his person. He shifts in place quietly. 

_However…_

“However…?” 

_You are not dead, and, therefore, you are not inside my jurisdiction. Yet. You are dying, and this is why I summoned you. I would try not to die. Our meeting will be far less pleasant if you come back before you are meant to._

It sounds like a threat and reads like one, but he can already feel the edges of whatever this is fuzzing away, so he doesn’t waste energy on trying to understand it. Might just be her way of saying ‘don’t show up again when you’re sucking death’s sweet, sweet door’ or something like that. “...a’ight.” It comes out weaker than he wanted it to, but he thinks he did pretty well, for talking to a god. 

Things fuzz back out, and color becomes indeterminate. He fades back into unconsciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say, uh- wow! I posted the small beginning excerpt this morning, and already it's gotten one bookmark, almost ten kudos, and 100 views! You all are amazing!
> 
> For those of you who are wondering: Taako was poisoned with arsenic. I did a bit of research and theoretical headcanoning; it took half the time it might take for symptoms to show up in Taako because elves, in this verse, and any verse I use them in, really, have twice as fast a digestive system/metabolism than humans.
> 
> So if arsenic takes thirty+ minutes to start showing symptoms in a human, for an elf, they'll cycle through it faster, and it'll hit more acutely. 
> 
> Time goes skewed for a little bit near the end of the second excerpt because Taako is largely focused more on trying not to _die_ , and, uh- failing quite spectacularly, you know? 
> 
> I can't promise a consistent update schedule, but I can definitely promise at least one chapter a week, permitting my work schedule! Thank you so much for reading my shitty little escapades!


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry has a hard time. Angus is a smart, smart boy, and I guess Taako kind of keeps existing. He isn't dead yet, so that's a plus.

His name is Silvar Hallwinter. Well- it’s, his coin says it’s Barry J. Bluejeans, but he's pretty sure it’s Silvar.

Barry feels more correct, though.

He doesn't… know a lot about himself? He knows his name, what his magical coin tells him- it’s more like a recorded message, he thinks, but he doesn't know what events trigger it, so he's just… stuck like this, in this kind of memory-lacking limbo. It’s extremely frustrating, sometimes. He knows that he should have more than just the basics.

It’s like someone scooped out the majority of his life and left only the ragged edges. He doesn't like it.

So he travels. He looks for a red robed elf named Lup. He searches far and wide, and- sometimes he wakes up thinking he's died, and it hurts. He can catch himself tracing spots on his neck or chest where he thinks it should hurt, but there’s no scars to let him know anything has happened. It feels like he's a clay doll and someone forgot to put him together right.

Then he tastes food that feels almost exactly like what home would, and the coin speaks again. It tells him _you might find an elf; well- we’d find them, since we’re, uh, the same person, but you’re gonna find them. Not this me. Maybe. I think. But- the point is, you’re gonna, they’re- if they make you food, you’ll know, Barry. It’ll taste like home and you’ll know. They’re family, and they might not be Lup, but they’re… important. They’re more important than you could ever know. Keep them safe._

He tries.

That turns out to be exceptionally fucking hard, actually, because the dude runs a cooking show, and he won’t stop inadvertently attracting attention. He’s got an air to him; it’s this flamboyant edge, and it feels _so fucking familiar_. He can’t place why, though, so he takes the coin’s word for it. Their reassurance, however seldom, that’s all he has right now. That, and the experiences he makes day to day. They shape him into a man who looks twice before he moves, who always carries a blade, but- they shape him into a man who loves with passion, because he cannot afford to love less in a world that’s always looking to drag him under.

Why waste time being bitter about what he doesn't have when he could be happy and love what he does have, anyways?

The latest cooking show this man (Taako; his name is Taako) just put on, though… he's terrified of the outcome right now. Not for himself, not for anyone else- but for the cook. He's got Taako's head in his lap and he's shouting for someone, _anyone_ to come help, because the guy's still foaming, still twitching and trying to cling to life; he doesn't know what the hell happened, but he knows for damn sure that elves don’t vomit blood on a regular basis, and they sure as hell don’t stop breathing.

He managed to restart his lungs, though; it was close, and Taako's still kind of… threading that line, but he’s breathing. He didn’t even know he _knew_ CPR until now.

What a way to learn he did. Fuck.

Finally, _finally_ , someone manages to call in a cleric, and they help him carry Taako to their place of operations; it’s this small building near the edge of the town, and it might be a little run down, but it’s all he's got to work with, right now. The cleric is a half elf, and they- well, they don’t look a day over twenty. They’re so _young_. They also have no fucking idea what they’re doing, as he quickly learns, because they can’t figure out what’s wrong with him.

“What if- what if it was poison? He just started vomiting blood, it could have been poison-”

The cleric pales, and he learns that they’re just an apprentice. They don’t know the spell to heal that kind of thing. If they have a book with a list of potions, or if they have some sort of knowledge on how to _make_ a heal poison potion, he could try to help make it- but there’s not enough _time_ for that.

He won’t let go of his hand when he tries to get up and move away. He’s still unconscious, Barry thinks - Taako, that is - but he won’t let go. He wasn't even aware he had started gripping his hand at some point. He must have, or he must have grabbed it, because his grip is weak but insistent, any time Barry try to pull away.

He sits with him, because he doesn't know what else to do but wait. It hurts.

Death is painful to watch. Barry doesn't like it.

//

Barry don’t sleep for very long, for fear of waking up to find that Taako's died. Instead, he chugs as coffee as humanly possible. It’s been maybe a day since, and he’s still teetering on that edge, still clinging to life, but still so fragile; it feels like a push in the wrong direction could easily kick him into the Astral Plane, or wherever people go when they die, and Barry… he doesn't know how to fix it.

There’s a knock on the door. He sets his coffee down and clears his throat, makes sure that Taako is still breathing, then speaks.

“Yeah, uh, we’re in here! What’s up?”

A child and his assumed guardian walk into the room. The man is old, almost worryingly so, but his eyes are kind, and they put him at ease. They’re the eyes of a man that’s seen what the world has to offer in its entirety, wise and caring and alien; the child, in comparison, is almost the opposite. They’re straightlaced and fancy, just a really fancy little boy, in fact. He looks like he came straight out of a detective book series. Minus the leather book bag strapped to his side and the cap on his head, of course.

“Uh. Hey, there. Can I help you guys…?”

The child speaks up first. “My name is Angus McDonald, sir, and, well- I solve mysteries. My grandfather was taking me to see some family back where we live, and we were passing through, and- I just couldn’t pass this up. This sir’s food was incredible, and he seemed so nice, and I’m so sorry about what happened, really- no, please don't frown! I’m getting to the point, please.” He wipes the growing frown off of his face, albeit reluctantly.

“I’m a detective. I can solve the mystery of who did this to him and put your souls to rest, so you know who did it. It’s a, a pretty open and shut case, anyways, kind of straightforward; my grandpa also knows a cleric who might be able to help! He’s out by the seaside, right, grandpa?” Angus’s grandfather nods and signs a few words to him. FSL, huh? Barry know some Thieves’ Cant, so some of the words are recognizable.

“Okay, that’s, that’s great, but he doesn’t have the time for that. He’d be dead by the time that guy even hears about this.”

“No, he won’t, sir, because my grandpa can get there quick. It’ll take a few days, tops. He’ll be okay, I promise. Detective’s honor.”

He considers his options. The cleric in this town is mediocre at best, and the master cleric died recently; the prospect of killing two birds with one proverbial stone is too good to pass up, but he doesn't want to just blindly put his trust in a child he just met. He seems competent, but this…. this isn’t something that time can rely on. He could die at any given moment. Poison is fickle. It could take days to end Taako's life, or mere minutes.

What choice does he have, really?

“Okay, kid. I’ll- i’ll give you a chance. I know some first aid, so I can keep him stable for as long as possible, but you have to _promise_ me that your grandpa knows what he’s doing.” Angus nods, confident; Barry can see his hands shaking under the resolve, the weight of the mission he’s taking on, but he’s steadfast. It does a little bit to put his mind at ease.

“He’s the smartest man I know, sir. I can talk to the sheriff and collect the evidence currently compiled, get some eyewitness accounts; until then, grandpa’ll be on his way to get that cleric.” His grandpa is already taking his leave, and if Barry looks closely, he can see the barest hints of horns in his hair. Huh.

The kid shakes his hand without much warning, leaving him mildly baffled, but still in the present. “Hey- I never told you my name! You’ll need it, right?”

“I already know your name, sir. You’re Silvar Hallwinter, former traveller, and you go by Barry Bluejeans.” And out the door he walks, leaving Barry flabbergasted and mildly afraid. That’s a smart ass kid. How the _hell_ did he know who he was in the first place? Does he just read any police record he comes across? He got arrested _once!_ That’s scary.

He goes back to sipping his coffee, then pauses, because he could have sworn a dragon just passed by in the sky; those are serious business.

//

A few more hours pass. He's... anxious. They had to revive Taako one more time after an assumed failed death save, and he seems worse for wear after the endeavor. He could feel his magic hiccup, almost die out, which is- it’s a weird way to phrase it, but it’s the closest description to what he felt when he saw him die.

Because he did. 

There are two electric burn marks in the shape of handprints burned into his chest from the cleric in their attempt to restart his heart and shock his lungs back into a rhythm, and he was legally fucking dead for at least half a minute. He counted the seconds.

The agonizing, heart-breaking seconds. He doesn't understand why he's so attached to this guy already.

Maybe it’s the fact that he's watching the life drain out of him? It could be. He's recounting his memories carefully, hand still clutched in Taako's, thinking quietly about how has have to pee- until his slack grip in his own grows taught, tight, and he jolts up in the bed.

“Oh! Oh, you’re awake-” Which doesn’t seem to be a great thing for him, because he’s not breathing correctly. He offers a steady hand on his back and pulls his hand away from his face while he hacks, and he can see the hazy cogs turn in his mind. “You have to stay calm if you want to breathe, come on- in and out, buddy. It’s gonna hurt, but you gotta try and match pace. Come on.”

It’s slow, and he’s still wheezing, a painful, rattling inhale-exhale, wet and angry sounding, but he’s breathing, and he settles back down. Much to Barry's confusing dismay, he detangles his hand from his. “Uh. Hi. My name is, uh, Barry Bluejeans, i’ve been by your side for two days, I think? They’re sending for a more experienced cleric now, you just gotta- hold on for a few days. Okay, buddy?”

He seems to mull it over from where he’s resting; he cards a hand through his hair and _scowls,_ because a good portion of his hair comes back with his hand. “.... _yeah._ ” Okay. He can talk. That’s good. “ _Hah_ \- fuckin’- h’rts. ‘s not _fun_ , you- dig me? Taako’s _good_ out here- not dying- ‘t'd be _nice_ not to-” Even if his words are choppy and strained, it’s a good sign.

“Come on. Let’s get you some food, see if a healing potion helps. I think they were trying to find some, but they, ah- never got back to me.”


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry and Taako have some quality bonding time. Angus is, as always, extremely competent.

Taako's tired.

From the moment he wakes up, he is bone-deep tired. He knows this isn't healthy, that the rumble and wheeze in his lungs isn't healthy, or the throbbing ache in his stomach, but he is _alive_ , and he marvels at that fact gently. When he opens his eyes, struggles to breathe, breathes in time with a man who looks- kind of like Tom Bodett, just a little, he's almost instantly confused.

Something about a healing potion is mentioned. He was a little preoccupied with his hair coming out in his hand, but, yeah. Okay. Sure. He'll give a healing potion a shot.

Not like he has anything to lose, here, besides his life.

Distantly, he remembers something frightening, when he'd slept. Eyes, and raven feathers, being yelled at for dying too soon; he brushes it off as a near death dream, then leaves it be.

Barry, or whatever he said his name was- hard to try and distinguish time from itself, so things are muddled and choppy- rummages around in his bag for what feels like an eternity before he finally pulls out a scuffed, corked potion of some sorts.

“It's not… Well, this might actually be a stamina potion. Either way, it _should_ help. I'm not a cleric, uh- sorry.”

A cough. He tastes blood. “...fuck it. 've it.”

He takes the potion from Barry and drinks it carefully, sets the bottle down, and lets the contents simmer around in his stomach for a moment… and breathes. He still tastes blood on his tongue, it still hurts to draw in a breath, but it's. Manageable. He can manage this. He can think, at least, doesn't feel so shaky, though he keeps pulling strands of hair out frighteningly easily. He doesn't want to think about it.

“...thanks. Uh.” A throat clear. “I get that I'm. Still- in Springs, yeah, but- where am I?”

Barry perks up. He's got this whole dimple situation going on, where his cheeks quirk up when he smiles, and it's kind of endearing. Screw him for being endearing. Giving him healing potions. Jeez.

“Oh! Well- we brought you to the infirmary when you started to… y'know. Seize. Wasn't much we could do beyond stabilize you.” His head does feel a little tender. Would explain that. “Truth be told, I was just passing by. Couldn't- I couldn't let my conscience stand by while an innocent man started dying, though.”

Gross. He's a good guy. _Gross._

“...don’t _blame you_ , I- guess.” There’s this thing going on where part of his mind keeps trying to rationalize whatever it can grasp, try and reason away what’s happened; the only _problem_ , though, is there isn’t much to remember in the first place, and he doesn’t have much reason to go by, which is normal. “Would- I’d love it if- my hair. Stopped.” He takes a deep breath. “Stops doing… the-- thing.” Bluejeans watches him, confused. He shows him the handful of hair he has sitting in his hand, golden strands of hair just… sitting there, limp, almost a little sad in their display. He’s tired.

He’s afraid of going back to sleep, or meditation. Maybe he can’t sleep this off like he originally told himself he could.

“Oh- uh. Yeah, sorry about that, I’ve been- actually, I’ve been reading up on poisons while you were asleep, and I’m pretty sure the poison used against you was arsenic?” Barry just- pulls out this giant book that he can’t make his eyes focus on for more than five seconds, slams it down onto a nearby desk, and starts flipping through the pages. “Because most of the symptoms you’ve been exhibiting are most of the symptoms here.”

“Mmmhm?” He doesn’t actually want to hear any of this, like, fucking sue him, he has little to no interest in hearing about the grisly details of his attempted murder, but Barry looks excited to at least think he’s helping, so… he’ll. He’ll let him continue.

“Yeah! So I don’t know if you’ll be able to keep anything down for a while, we’re gonna try anyways, because nutrition and hydration is important-- uh, one of the most important things about trying to stay alive while you’re sick, actually!” He’s growing annoyed. Just a little. “We’re gonna keep an eye out for any more seizing, which might be an issue, we’re _hoping_ it won’t be, but your hair… uh. That’s probably gonna fall out.” He goes still.

“No.”

“... Taako, you don’t- you can’t control that.”

“ _No._ ”

“Look--”

“It’s _my hair_ , nobody gets, gets to, to just-- if- if anyone gets to- make the decision to, to make it go away, that’s _me_ not some _shitty poison--_ ” He’s cut off by his lungs, a bodily betrayal, coughs that rattle his ribcage and shake him down to his core; he sees red on his hands and tastes iron in his mouth after he finally manages to catch his breath, and-- when did Barry get by his bedside? He… he doesn’t remember him walking over. He doesn’t remember him hovering his hand over the small of his back, not touching, but an invitation for comfort nonetheless.

He’s so fucking tired of not being in control of the situation.

“It’s _my hair._ ” He hates that he sounds so pathetic about the whole thing. If he could just-- if they could find a cleric who knew Cure Poison, something along the lines of Greater Restoration, he’d be _fine._ He’d be _good._ Barry just sits on the edge of his bed and sighs, pursing his lips. 

“I know, bud.” He sneers.

“Don’t- call me nicknames.”

“...oh, uh- yeah, okay, I- okay.” He feels… bad, kind of, about watching his face fall after the reprimand, because that’s kind of what that was, wasn’t it, some defensive bullshit he was putting out- but the guy bounces back easily enough. “I was thinking, though, Taako- if- look, if you’re so upset about your hair going, do you… do you want me to cut it? And- we can use the rest of the hair that’s cut for something you’d like.”

He… doesn’t actually hate that idea. He’s not averse, apprehensive, maybe, but not completely against the idea that he’d immediately shut it down. He takes a couple of moments to think it over and curls some of his hair inbetween his hand, then wipes the blood on his palm off onto the covers, sniffing. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You- oh. You’re sure?”

“Did I say yeah?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Yeah. Don’t be a- nervous nelly, you fuckin’- _nerdlord._ ” The ragging feels- well, it feels normal. It feels familiar and playful and he can see some of the stress lines start to fade around Barry’s eyes when he starts ragging on him, and it’s-- not relieving, maybe not helping, not in the way he wants it to, but it’s familiar enough in that weird, half-remembering way, that he lets it make him feel a little better about the whole situation. At least he has this. At least he has something he can hold onto, while he’s dying.

“Is it okay if I cut your hair, then?”

He deliberates, takes his sweet time with answering, then looks over to where his hat has been set. “...you have to. Talk. So I know where you are. It- I don’t. Trust you.” Barry just nods. Why is he such a nice fucking guy, what is he getting out of this, is- is he getting some sick sort of pleasure from nursing him back to health? Is that what this is? Taako doesn’t know, but he’d rather that isn’t the answer to this.

For once, he finds himself hoping that Barry Bluejeans really is a genuinely nice man. A little ragged around the edges, but nice nonetheless.

He watches Barry pull out a pair of iron scissors from one of the cabinets and watches as he sits over on the side of the bed again, and he offers a hand. Taako takes it, sits up, and wobbles; there’s a hand that steadies him, and he smacks it away. He doesn’t need any fucking charity. He isn’t made of glass. Gods.

Then there’s hands in his hair, and he just kind of… melts. It’s not bad, but it’s been so long since he let anyone touch his hair that he forgot how nice it felt. He can almost forget how hard it is to breathe, sometimes, how lead-like his stomach feels, because there are hands parting his hair into sections, carding fingers through the locks, and it’s- nice. Like somebody he can’t see braiding his hair on summer days, like his aunt teaching him how to braid his own hair, chipped painted nails on golden locks against brown, honey bark skin--

Then, he feels lighter, and he can hear the scissors going to work. He doesn’t particularly want to look at what he looks like after this, but he’s going to have to face the facts at some point, so he’ll stomach it. For now, he lets Barry cut his hair, revels in the touch after going without for so long, and dozes quietly, until he’s gently nudged awake. He stifles a few half-suppressed coughs and chases away the taste of iron in his mouth, sits up a little straighter, and runs his hand through his hair. More hair pulls away in his hand. He frowns.

“Does it- look okay?”

“...honestly, it’s kind of handsome.”

“Bullshit. I’ve got blood on my chin. Handsome- ain’t achieved’th that, buddy.”

Barry laughs, and then Taako is laughing, too, wheezy and pained but hysterical at the edges; he can do this, right? He’s a mess, but he can do this. He hasn’t died yet. He’s got way less hair, but he can do this.

“...hey. Uh. Barry, right?”

Barry stops rolling some of his hair inbetween his fingers while he gets his laughter under control and looks up, blinking. “Yeah?”

“You… won’t let me die. Right?”

He can see the warring emotions in Barry’s eyes, the answer he wants to give versus the one he probably knows is true- and then he speaks. “Yeah. I’ll try.”

“Thanks.”

//

This case is fucking child’s play. He may only be, what… uh- eleven, in human years, what they might consider to be eleven, but this case? It’s pretty open and shut, from what he can tell. His grandpa hasn’t gotten back to him yet on the whereabouts of one Merle Highchurch, but he’s sure that he’ll be able to find the dwarf. His grandpa is a very smart dragon! A very old one, too. He’s lived through some of the world’s coolest and most factually interesting events that he knows of, and he knows about a lot! Not everything, but-- a lot.

One day, he’ll know everything there is to know. Then, he’ll know even more.

But, for now, he’ll have to be content with knowing what he knows, sans the information about this case. He’s recording it now on paper, quill and ink, hurried little writings in case the defendant dies before he can solve this- and it’s _not hard_ , is the thing.

He knows these things:

One, sir Taako was incapacitated at his show over the course of a thirty minute period. Suspicions in the crowd, from who he’s interviewed, arose around the period in time where he replaced his food mid show. Something about… faulty food? Therefore, by that reasoning, he can assume that sir Taako was aware of being poisoned by this point; perhaps the fear of public scrutiny kept him from seeking help beforehand.

Two, his assistant is currently nowhere to be seen. A cursory search of the crime scene revealed nothing in particular, but a militia-aided search of sir Taako’s coach carriage turned up a half-empty bottle of arsenic. He can deduce from sir Sazed’s conspicuous disappearance at the time of the crime and apparent disappearance since then, the bottle of arsenic, and sir Taako’s reluctance to allow the crowd to taste said poisoned food- that this was indeed a murder attempt, but not from Taako’s hand, as some have already begun to speculate.

He’s gathering his evidence into a presentable form when someone knocks on his door, then opens it. He’s managed to let the local militia let him stay in their area of operations by virtue of reputation alone, but there’s someone standing in front of him with a cup of coffee, frown firmly planted on their face.

“Oh, hello, sir! What seems to be the issue?”

“They’ve decided to go ahead and prosecute the chef--”

“For what? Protecting his audience from a murder attempt on his own life? That doesn’t seem very fair to him, considering he’s dying.”

“Look- it ain’t my decision, kid. I’m just here to deliver the news.”

“Well, I assume it’s the militia head’s decision. I think I’m going to pay him a visit.”

“You can’t-- he’s in a meeting right now, he’s got more important shit to do-”

He glares, standing up out of his chair. “More important than justice? You’re telling me, sir, that you would willingly let a murderer get away with his objective, let him go free, and let the victim die as a martyr for a crime he didn't, nor wouldn’t, commit? He had ample opportunity to let that crowd taste that food without testing, _sir_ , and quite frankly, I think prosecuting him on his deathbed for a crime he’s the victim of is a load of _bullshit!_ So, I’m going to go see the head of the militia, you’re going to continue to drink your coffee and scrunch up your nose, and I’m going to do my job. Good _day._ ” He grabs his evidence tray, storms out of the room in a hurry, and clenches the papers tightly beneath his fingers.

If he doesn’t manage to convince the militia head that Taako is indeed innocent of this crime, or, at the very least, buy him some time so he can compile the necessary evidence to absolve him of responsibility in this crime, then he’s not sure what he’s going to do next.

He’s never let an innocent man or woman go behind bars, yet, and he refuses to start now.

He passes several people in the pursuit of the head militia’s office. He ignores most of them aside from giving them a cursory nod, a wave if they wave to him- and he has to duck out of the way of someone trying to ruffle his hair, because he didn’t consent to being touched by someone he doesn’t know, no thank you. He’ll blast them with a breath of ice if he can, if they continue. His grandfather might get mad at him, but he knows how to mitigate that anger.

Most of the time, that is.

Finally, he steps inside of the office, evidence neatly tucked away in his arms, and clears his throat. The militia head is currently speaking with the judge, along with a few jurors; he doesn’t think that’s legal. Discussing the case outside of those involved directly with the investigation of the case is _illegal._ Something about this whole thing is smelling real fishy to him, and it stinks something fierce.

“Excuse me, sir? Sorry to interrupt-”

“If you’re so sorry ‘bout it, then you’ll leave. Move along, pipsqueak.”

“Sir, I have some very important information regarding the Taaco case-”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do, but I already made my decision. Piss off, kid.”

“Your decision is wrong.”

“... excuse me?” He levels Angus with a steely glare. He holds his tongue, but stands his ground. He knows what he knows, and he knows he’s right. He’ll be damned if he lets a human intimidate him into letting this case go wrong.

“You’re _wrong._ I know what you’re trying to do, here, sir.” He starts moving closer, clutching the evidence in his arms tightly. The jurors in the room are watching him with interest. The judge is narrowing their eyes. “First of all, gathering those involved indirectly with the case to try and influence a decision made before the case is brought to court is highly illegal, and you should know that. None of these people were at the scene of the crime and they should remain impartial parties. The fact that you’re trying to influence their decision, including the judge, into trying to jail a dying man screams foul play to me, _sir._ But what would I know? I’m just a little fucking boy!” He pulls up a chair and sits down. The militia head is looking pissed.

“Secondly,” And he slams down the evidence onto the table, startling the judge just a little. The militia head is eyeing him with angry, steely eyes. “I’ve compiled evidence that points to one Sazed Marquise as the culprit, not one Taako Taaco. You would have known this before I figured it out, had you any common sense. He left the scene of the crime before Taako fell, he left a bottle of arsenic in the stage coach when he fled, and he continues to be conspicuously absent during all of this; several people who were there are vouching for sir Taako’s innocence and adamance of their abstaining from the poisoned food, and, apparently, he went out of his way to replace the food once alerted to it’s altered state. So, you have a choice, here, sir!”

He leans back in his chair, grinning with sharp, sharp teeth, and adjusts his glasses.

“You can either make the right decision and look over the evidence a second time, determine Taako as innocent, and send out a bounty for sir Sazed, or you could do the terrible thing, and I could expose you for fraudulent practice of your job and malpractice, as well as bias during an investigation, and get you deseated as head of the militia. My reputation precedes me, as you must have heard. I really do hate to be put into this position, sir, you have to understand. You’ve left me with little choice, here.” He leans a little closer. “Because nothing stands in the way of justice. _Nothing._ ”

He looks a little mortified and mollied by the end of his little speech. Angus has to admit, he got a little carried away with that entire… thing, but he got the point across well enough, and he can only hope that the militia head sees the righteous way.

The militia head just kind of… takes a deep breath, and dismisses the rest of the room, sans Angus. Most of them leave. The judge lingers, but heads out the door, closing it behind him, in which, once the door closes, the militia head stands up, glaring. “You’re a real pain in my fuckin’ ass, kid, you know that?” 

“It seems to be my specialty.”

“Yeah. No shit.”

“Have you made your decision, sir? I’m sure they all have.”

“... if I don’t do what you want, you’re just gonna smear me across county, ain’t you?”

“I want you to do the right thing, sir. We both know he’s innocent.”

“Sazed was an integral part of that fuckin’ show and we both know it!” He slams his hands down onto the table. Angus doesn’t flinch. He’s seen far scarier. 

“Sazed was a coward who poisoned his boss because he got jealous of the position he wasn’t in and tried to bite off more than he could chew! He is a COWARD and he deserves to be in jail, and your personal bias shouldn’t be influencing this case! The fact that it is is SEVERELY unprofessional! You didn’t take this job to act like a giant child, so _stop acting like one and do your job right!_ ”

He almost looks like he’s going to try and hurt Angus, for half a second, before he breaks away from the table and throws his hands up into the air. He watches this man, unimpressed, and leans back in his chair. “Make your decision.”

“Fine! Fine, goddamn it! I’m not putting the bounty above anything other than a hundred gold pieces, though, I ain’t runnin’ a fuckin’ charity! Taako Taaco’ll be announced innocent of all charges, Istus, gods, you’re such a fuckin’ pain in the ass….”

“How do I know you’ll be true to this decision?”  
“Zone of Truth me, kid. I’ll have someone do it myself if that’ll _get you out of my office._ ”

He doesn’t trust the militia head, but… he doesn’t have the time to slog through a Zone of Truth presentation. He decides to put his trust in him, just this once, and stands, brushing his shirt off, even though there was nothing to brush off in the first place. “Well, then! I’m glad I could be of service, sir, and that nobody was harmed during this entire situation, besides the chef. I hope he heals up, and I’m glad to have helped you solve this case. Have a plentiful harvest!”

And with that, he steps out of the office, fixes his little fancy bowtie, and heads out of the building. It’s just a matter of waiting for his grandfather to get back, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly, i would like to apologize for taking so long to update!! a lot of irl shit happened that lead to taking so long, and i still don't know if i'm going to have a consistent update schedule, but i'm going to try, and that's all you can do, sometimes.
> 
> for those of you who've stuck with the story this long, you're honest to god amazing, thank you so much!! im baffled by how many people have commented, liked, and read this story, it's a little inspiring!! continue to be good and i hope your day is blessed, and hopefully i'll have another chapter out soon!! - scrub


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